


asked and answered

by bubonickitten



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Verbal Abuse, brief self-harm mention, fire/burning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:34:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23995354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubonickitten/pseuds/bubonickitten
Summary: “Anders, what did you do?”It’s a question he hears often, in all of its various incarnations.
Kudos: 13





	asked and answered

**Author's Note:**

> (This was written like four years ago but only ever posted to Tumblr. I just got an AO3 account and figured I'd upload some of my old fic.)

_“Anders, what did you do?”_

It’s a question he hears often, in all of its various incarnations. 

________________________________________

When he is still a child, not yet branded a scourge or a monster, his family keeps a cat in the barn as a mouser. He helps her deliver her kittens — one, two, three… but the fourth takes much longer to arrive than the others, and when it does, it moves only weakly and makes no sound when its mother licks it clean.

 _What should I do?_ He's terrified, but he acts as if by instinct. He wraps the newborn lightly in a cloth and begins rubbing it gently, willing it to breathe, _please breathe_. For a moment, he swears that he sees a faint glow emanate from his hands, but his wonder is swept aside when he hears the tiny mews, signs of life. The kitten is a tabby, smaller than all the others, and he places it fondly by its mother to nurse next to the others. Four total. He smiles, ecstatic. He’ll need to think of a good name for it — for all of them. 

“What did you do?” his mother asks later as he tells her the story. 

He tells her that he helped, but he doesn’t mention the glow. His mother praises him, assures him that yes, of course he can name the kittens — he was so good with them, after all, and they would be his responsibility now. 

He didn’t even know he could smile so wide. 

________________________________________

Weeks later, he’s dallying in the barn, watching the kittens as they play-fight and scamper through the hay. He twirls a chicken feather in one hand; one kitten pounces for it and misses, and he's all smiles. 

One of the kittens must have startled the horse, because it suddenly rears up with a shrill whinny. Anders startles, his heart leaping into his throat. The horse's hooves pound back onto the wooden floor when it lowers. Next thing Anders knows, there’s a burning sensation in his fingers; he yelps in pain and jumps backward, but the fire comes with him — it’s coming from his hands. He shakes them in a panic and the jet of flames stops, but not before the hay catches fire. 

Frantic, he scoops up the nearest three kittens into his arms, springs to his feet, and fumbles with the latch on the horse’s stall to free it. It flees the moment Anders heaves the gate open, and he turns to scan the barn for the mother cat and her fourth kitten — the tabby runt he had saved only weeks prior. The wood barn is old and it’s burning fast. He’s coughing, the heat scorching his throat and lungs, he can’t see anything through the smoke, and the kittens in his arms are crying — he needs to get them to safety. That’s when he hears the crack of a beam overhead, and he bolts for the open door, sprinting until he’s a safe enough distance away to dump the three kittens on the ground. He sees the horse disappearing fast into the treeline — his father will be furious — and he steels himself with the intention of running back into the barn in hopes of rescuing the other two cats. That’s when the roof collapses in a torrent of smoke and cinders. 

He feels his heart sink, but only moments later the mother cat trots out from the cloud of smog, her whiskers singed, covered in soot, looking positively indignant. In her mouth is the runt kitten, and it’s alive. _They’re both alive._ Anders nearly chokes on his relieved laugh and his sore throat twinges in protest — and that’s when his father clutches the scruff of his shirt and twists, spinning Anders around to face him. 

“What did you do?” he roars, face red and spittle flying from his lips, jabbing his finger toward the smoldering barn. “Look at what you’ve done!”

Anders balks and tries to squirm out of his father’s grip, terrified of his temper, but when he flinches, a brief burst of flame emerges from his fingertips again. Now his father’s eyes are bulging, mouth hanging open now not in rage, but in horror — and that's worse than his fury, Anders realizes with a jolt, his blood running cold. Without saying another word, he seizes the back of Anders’ neck, marches him to the storm cellar, pushes him roughly down the stairs, and slams the doors behind him. Anders hears the lock slide into place with a click and his father muttering as he stalks off: “Maker save us. What did we do to deserve that?” 

Anders is still there when the sun goes down. 

________________________________________

“What did you do?” he hears his mother yell from inside the farmhouse later that night. 

For a split second, Anders thinks she’s yelling at him, but then he hears his father’s bellowed reply. Both of them are locked in a heated argument and he strains to make out the words, but all of it mashes together like one big noise. A door slams and the house rattles; it’s followed by muffled, distant sobbing. 

Anders hugs his knees close and draws his shoulders in, intent on making himself as small as he possibly can. 

________________________________________

Two days later, a pair of templars come and slap the shackles on him. His father has his back turned, but his mother is crying as she watches him leave. Anders doesn’t get a chance to say goodbye. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the runt tabby playing with its siblings near the fence and he falters; with that, one of the templars strikes him between the shoulder blades with a gauntleted hand — _“Keep moving, apostate”_ — and Anders cringes at the venom dripping from the word. 

“Easy—he’s just a kid. He doesn’t mean any harm,” chides the other templar. 

“It doesn’t matter if he meant it — did you see what he did? Lucky it was just the barn — he could’ve killed both his parents, maybe even himself.” He spits on the ground, only barely missing Anders. “These robes don’t even know how good they have it. Magic is to serve man, and never to rule over him — yet here we are, coddling them. It’s no wonder the Maker hasn’t returned — we’ve let his world be overtaken by vermin darkspawn and demon fodder.” 

“That’s not what the Chant says,” the other protests weakly. 

They continue bickering as if Anders isn’t even present. It’s his first glimpse into how deep hatred can run. 

________________________________________

“So, what did you do?” the apprentice asks, arms folded, looking him up and down.

“What do you mean?” Anders is exhausted, weak; he feels like the walls are pressing in on him and the air feels stagnant. He doesn’t want to speak to anyone, but the apprentices all keep pestering him, crowding him, greedy for gossip about the newest addition to their ranks.

“Well, you were in quarantine for five whole days. No one stays down there that long. So, what did you do?” 

Anders sighs. Maybe if he just answers, everyone will leave him alone. “I burned down a barn.” There’s a brief pause before he blurts out a hasty clarification: “It was an accident.” 

“I’ve heard worse.” The apprentice shrugs; he seems almost disappointed that Anders’ story wasn’t more exciting. Then a grin spreads across his face. “One of the older mages here, she set a boy on fire for bullying her.” 

Anders has to admit that’s impressive. 

“I’m Karl, by the way. What’s your name?” 

People have been hounding him for his name since the moment he came up from quarantine, but he feels disconnected from it now. _“That,”_ his father had called him, as though he was a _thing,_ some repulsive creature stuck to the underside of his boot. For days, he has been referred to as “that new kid from the Anderfels,” though a few apprentices have taken to calling him “Anders” for short. 

“Anders,” he tells Karl. “Just… Anders.” 

________________________________________

“What did you do?” Wynne asks, her brow furrowed in concern, leaning close to examine the large angry burn on Anders’ forearm. 

She sees many self-inflicted burns among the apprentices, some of them due to negligence or recklessness, but many intentional. Cutting would lead to suspicions of blood magic, so they found other ways to help themselves feel real. 

“Anders,” she urges gently when he doesn’t answer. He stares obstinately at his feet, only grudgingly holding his arm out for Wynne to treat the wound. The cool touch of healing magic is a blessing, but he wishes she wasn’t so nosy. “Do you need to talk?”

“No,” he snaps, still refusing to look her in the eye. “It was just a nightmare. It was nothing.” 

He still dreams of the fire in the barn. It’s obviously not the first time he’s conjured flame in moments of fear, but this is the first time it’s happened in his sleep. He flashes back to the day the templars came to collect him: _Did you see what he did? He could’ve killed both his parents, maybe even himself._

A cloud of guilt hangs over him, laced with sharp overtones of resentment—why should he have to feel guilty or repent for an accident of birth? For a curse he never asked for? He blinks back angry tears and ducks his head even more, hoping Wynne didn’t see. 

Wynne just nods, understanding, and tells him she has a potion that might help with nightmares. Anders stays silent, but shrugs to show he heard. 

________________________________________

“Anders, what did you do?” Karl demands. “What were you thinking?” 

It’s just after Anders’ fourth failed escape attempt. There’s a vivid purple bruise blossoming across the right side of his face — the templars do love using their armored fists. Couldn’t he heal it? _Yes,_ he says, but it makes him feel alive. He has no shame — why should he? 

A mischievous grin spreads across his face as he replies, “It seemed like a good idea at the time.” And it _was._

He would do it again—he will do it again, as soon as opportunity or ingenuity strike. He’s overflowing with manic energy, still euphoric from his brief foray into the outside world, and already his mind is racing with wild plans.

Karl tries to stay serious, tries to maintain his scorn, but he smiles instead — he can’t help it. “You’re going to get yourself in trouble like that one day,” he says, shaking his head, mirroring Anders’ smirk now. 

________________________________________

“What did you do this time, mage?” he hears Rolan sneer. His voice is muffled, as if coming from far away. Rolan has templars with him, and he’s saying something to them now, but Anders can’t make out the words — it’s like he’s hearing them from underwater. 

His world goes dark and he finds himself back in solitary confinement — the exact same dark cell, with the cold stone and the suffocating walls and the steady _drip-drip-drip_ of water in the distance. Fear and despair flood him in equal measure. The memory is so vivid, he’s convinced that it’s real. Everything that had happened — his final, finally successful escape attempt, his serendipitous encounter with the Warden-Commander, the fast friend who protected him when the templars came to take him away — was it all just a dream? Had he been here all this time, mind lost in a fantasy of his own making? 

Then there’s a flash of white light, and he catches glimpses of the outside world, quick and surreal like a fever dream: Screaming. The smell of burning. Rolan lunging at him with sword in hand.

He feels Justice engulf him, protective, enraged, terrified, and full of purpose all at once. _You will not take him again,_ he thunders — and then Anders loses consciousness.

When he wakes up the trees at the edges of the clearing are on fire and the thick, cloying scent of blood is in the air. Velanna is gripping his shoulders tightly, saying his name, telling him he needs to stand, that they need to leave. He has so many questions, but his world is spinning and stringing words together is an impossible challenge. Disoriented, he follows the sound of her voice.

“Well, Anders,” Velanna says later when they’re safe enough to stop and rest. “Let’s hear it. What did you do?” 

_What_ did _I do?_ he thinks to himself. Justice doesn’t answer, and Anders buries his face in his hands. 

_I’m sorry._

________________________________________

“Anders, what did you do?” Karl asks, eyes wide. His voice is his own again, Anders realizes, but the cruel sunburst brand remains. “It’s like you brought a piece of the Fade into this world.” 

Anders’ head is throbbing with the aftershocks of Justice’s appearance. _You will never take another mage as you took him,_ Justice had promised, and Anders flashes back to the day he merged with the spirit: _You will not take him again._

But Tranquility takes Karl again, and hopelessness takes Anders again, and Justice fades back into silence, and Anders is left with the task of setting Karl free. 

Promises, promises. 

_What use was our sacrifice if I can’t actually change anything?_

Justice says nothing.  
________________________________________

“Anders, what did you do?” 

He expected Hawke to be much angrier, but mostly they just sound… scared. _Hurt._ Maker, he would rather them just be angry with him. Resent him. Do not forgive him, because this is an act that cannot be forgiven. It was necessary, it was a last resort when all else had failed, but he never wanted to be the one to do it. 

This is the last link in a chain of wrongs that started so long ago with a barn on fire and he’s tired, so tired; he’s done all he can do, made every mistake there is to make, and he just wants to sleep. 

Justice never sleeps, and justice will only be served with a knife in the back. 

Hawke is just. Hawke is kind. Hawke will do what is right. Hawke will end it. 

But Hawke — always Hawke, always a mix of extremes, a walking contradiction, funny and sad, so predictable and yet always, always surprising him — Hawke embraces him from behind and says, “Come with me.”

________________________________________

“Anders,” Hawke says years later. “Look what we did.” 

Anders is still stuck on the first thing Hawke said when they burst through the door. They were panting heavily, as if they had been running. Anders jumped to his feet and grabbed his staff, assuming the worst, ready to fight or flee, but Hawke abruptly crashed into him, pulled him into a strong embrace and laughed, and then, before Anders could ask what was going on, Hawke said those remarkable, impossible words:

"The new Divine abolished the Circle. Anders, mages are free."

Anders is still in disbelief now, half-wondering if Hawke is only ribbing him, but this isn’t something Hawke would joke about. Hawke is full of inappropriate humor, always inspired to use it at the worst times — which, to be fair, are sometimes the times when their humor is needed most — but this… this is something Hawke would never tease about. 

Bemused, Anders returns Hawke’s embrace, his mind racing, one part of him ten steps ahead while another part is still attempting to process that simple statement: _Mages are free._

There’s still much work to be done, centuries of doctrine and prejudice to fight, but… no Circles. No more templars stealing children from their families and communities, no more gauntleted fists to the face, no more oppressive walls to keep out the rain or sunshine, no more being cornered by a Chantry sister and taking the licks from a weapon forged from faith. No dark cells, no dungeons, no Harrowings, no Rite of Tranquility. 

No more. 

“Look what we did, Anders,” Hawke says again.

The tears well up, and he lets them fall. For once, his heart doesn’t feel quite so heavy.


End file.
